National Geographic

before what appears to be a small garden dec-orated with large rocks. The context is so jar-ring—we can hear tourists squealing at the waterpark—that only gradually does the meaning ofthe stones take shape.They’re grave markers.``````BACK AT JASMIN’S HOME, he plays on the floorwith his small granddaughter. He wants his sonto follow him into the butterfly business, he says,but the young man shows no interest.As they play, I look over maps of the area. Ban-timurung Bulusaraung National Park, I realize,is larger than I had thought. Much larger.What was the name again, of the village near-est his hut?“Laiya,” he says.And there on the map is tiny Laiya—at the footof the mountain. Deep inside the park.So all the butterflies he and his catchers bringfrom that mountain are caught illegally.He shrugs. “As long as there is the forest, therewill be butterflies,” he says.moves to a window, where he points into thecrowd: “Look... look... look,” he says. He’spointing out men in police uniforms, whoseem unperturbed.“Let me show you something,” he says.We walk into the park itself, where we see afading hotel and natural water slide and tourguides leading groups toward underground cav-erns. Butterflies decorate every surface, downto the pavement itself, but there are no actualbutterflies to be seen in the air. “The governmentdoes not care,” Jasmin says.He points to a building. “That is where myhome was when I was small.” Banti murungEcotourism Park, he says, was the governmentproject that ousted his family when he was a boy.He walks deeper into the park, past his for-mer home, past a glassed-in terrarium that onceheld butterflies but now sits empty. Around acorner and down a narrow passage, away fromthe crowds, he begins to walk more slowly andspeak more softly.“This was my family,” he says. He stands132 NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC